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- Joined
- Nov 6, 2021
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[B][COLOR=rgb(143, 174, 112)]Character:
Time/Location:
Scene Status:
Tagging:[/COLOR][/B]
[HR=3][/HR]
Character: Jackson Carlisle
Time/Location: The Mothlight - somewhere between 11:00am and 12:00pm
Scene Status:OPEN
Tagging:@p r i s m (Yaya Bishop)
“Yaya,” Jackson Carlisle’s sing-song voice followed the sound of The Mothlight’s door jangling open. It was Brunching Hour - if he was back in New York, that is. Here in Nowheresville Chorus, TN, it was just … lunch. And for a bar whose hopping hours consisted of a handful of semi-hip redneck sorts and maybe a somewhat decent bluegrass rockabilly somewhat local excuse called a band drinking beer and occasionally whiskey. Neat – oh, well, it was sad and dead inside. Maybe a few day drinkers, but not the sort that sipped mimosas with their eggs benedict.
Did the bar even serve food?
Jackson could have sworn he had paid enough attention at some point to know this. Then again, most days he couldn’t be bothered to trudge into the light of day until well after noon unless he had work, and even then he approached his civil duties to the local community where he earned his paycheck …s - ha - in much the same fashion as a hissing vampire views the light of day: unpleasantly, and like it might kill him to wake up at an early enough time to have breakfast with his Nana instead of waiting until there was just enough time to roll over, shower, groom.
The grooming was especially important. It didn’t matter that most of the townsfolk looked like they had spent their whole lives dressing like they had rummaged through a Goodwill container of discards or just - found the local Tractor Supply and stockpiled on several pairs of dickies and plaid shirts as if that would ever be in style. Jackson insisted on maintaining his delusional bubble that he still lived in the city. More importantly, he refused to acknowledge that he no longer had a life.
Not like he did. Some would even say that’s a good thing.
Not that in his wildest dreams did he think he would be spending a whole year in the sleepy, creepy little town, but even he could admit - begrudgingly, and never out loud, that it had done him some good. He no longer had to touch up the bags under his eyes with foundation; sallow had turned to ghostly pale, then had turned to a more healthy color of tall, lanky, and white since he had been there. And if he had gained any weight, it was the right amount of it that saw him transforming from scarecrow to lanky.
Jackson filled out the burgundy vest that popped against the charcoal gray long sleeve he wore underneath, tucked into a darker pair of slacks, patterned. All underneath a dense black coat, collar turned up against the brisk cold that he left outside as he wandered deeper into the dive.
“I heard there was something interesting that happened last night and I need to know all about it. Now. I mean, yesterday, but you know I wasn’t going to be bothered with showing up to Hillbilly Festival central last night,” he chimed. Claimed a seat on a bar stool after inspecting it for anything … sticky or otherwise unsanitary. Then pointedly ignored the disgruntled looks he got from the locals regarding his attitude towards their little country bumpkin antics that went on last night. “I heard there was a murder,” he concluded, with all the grotesque intrigue he could muster while leaning forward to squint at himself in the stained front of a napkin dispenser.
Not that he could see himself in it. But he used it as an excuse to make sure the product tamed brown curls still flopped the way he preferred over his brow.
Did the bar even serve food?
Jackson could have sworn he had paid enough attention at some point to know this. Then again, most days he couldn’t be bothered to trudge into the light of day until well after noon unless he had work, and even then he approached his civil duties to the local community where he earned his paycheck …s - ha - in much the same fashion as a hissing vampire views the light of day: unpleasantly, and like it might kill him to wake up at an early enough time to have breakfast with his Nana instead of waiting until there was just enough time to roll over, shower, groom.
The grooming was especially important. It didn’t matter that most of the townsfolk looked like they had spent their whole lives dressing like they had rummaged through a Goodwill container of discards or just - found the local Tractor Supply and stockpiled on several pairs of dickies and plaid shirts as if that would ever be in style. Jackson insisted on maintaining his delusional bubble that he still lived in the city. More importantly, he refused to acknowledge that he no longer had a life.
Not like he did. Some would even say that’s a good thing.
Not that in his wildest dreams did he think he would be spending a whole year in the sleepy, creepy little town, but even he could admit - begrudgingly, and never out loud, that it had done him some good. He no longer had to touch up the bags under his eyes with foundation; sallow had turned to ghostly pale, then had turned to a more healthy color of tall, lanky, and white since he had been there. And if he had gained any weight, it was the right amount of it that saw him transforming from scarecrow to lanky.
Jackson filled out the burgundy vest that popped against the charcoal gray long sleeve he wore underneath, tucked into a darker pair of slacks, patterned. All underneath a dense black coat, collar turned up against the brisk cold that he left outside as he wandered deeper into the dive.
“I heard there was something interesting that happened last night and I need to know all about it. Now. I mean, yesterday, but you know I wasn’t going to be bothered with showing up to Hillbilly Festival central last night,” he chimed. Claimed a seat on a bar stool after inspecting it for anything … sticky or otherwise unsanitary. Then pointedly ignored the disgruntled looks he got from the locals regarding his attitude towards their little country bumpkin antics that went on last night. “I heard there was a murder,” he concluded, with all the grotesque intrigue he could muster while leaning forward to squint at himself in the stained front of a napkin dispenser.
Not that he could see himself in it. But he used it as an excuse to make sure the product tamed brown curls still flopped the way he preferred over his brow.
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